


J Is For John H. Watson [As Observed By Sherlock Holmes]

by mydogwatson



Series: A Baker Street Alphabet [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Fall, Pre-Slash, Sherlock is honest with himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tragedy is rushing towards them and Sherlock realizes just what he has to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	J Is For John H. Watson [As Observed By Sherlock Holmes]

**Author's Note:**

> A shorter piece today, but one that is rather crucial to my narrative arc.  
> Oh, sorry, must have taken a pomposity pill with my oj this morning.

This is my beloved and this is  
my friend.  
-Song of Solomon

 

John believes that I am working on my website, making further notations to my exhaustive study of tobacco varieties. It is sometimes remarkably easy to mislead him. [This is not to imply that John is stupid. Far from it.] Strangely, the fact that I can mislead him gives me no pleasure, because I know very well why I can do so. It is because John trusts me.

[Well, he is definitely not stupid, but that fact might make him an idiot.]

Note: The lines around his eyes are more pronounced than usual today. He has not been sleeping well. The eyes themselves are looking rather more hazel in the present light, not the blue that is more frequent. Interesting.

John is the first and only human being to truly trust me. That statement is not hyperbole; it is only a simple fact. Even Mother stopped trusting me when I was five years old and pointed out that---well, I digress.

Despite what my flatmate thinks, instead of musing on the quite fascinating vagaries of cigarette ash, I have decided to spend this evening contemplating the subject of John Hamish Watson.

My flatmate. My friend. My blogger.

And although he does not know it, the man who means so much more to me than any of those designations convey.

Note: His hair is just 25.4 millimetres longer than what he considers optimal. I have never expressed the opinion that I think adding 12.2 millimetres more would be the perfect length. Saying that aloud would undoubtedly be inappropriate for a friend. Probably. The texture is fine. Perfect. And the mingled shades of brown and gold and grey are endlessly fascinating. Recently an unfortunate incident involving an explosive kitchen roll led to the opportunity to run my fingers through his hair in order to brush away the many, many bits of paper clinging there. So much new data. I am still cataloging it all in the proper room.

Is it possible that John is not sleeping well because he somehow senses my growing concern?

No, that seems unlikely.

It is most probable John does not suspect anything of what I know.

I am convinced that something very bad is coming. 

And it is coming soon. I am aware of the deep rumblings moving across London. I believe that Mycroft hears those same rumblings and also knows the truth, although he will not discuss it with me. Which means that beyond simply knowing, he might even be complicit, although I would rather not believe that. He is, after all, my own brother. But I do know him, so absolutely nothing can be discounted.

Something is coming and it is bad.

Should I tell John?

After all, forewarned and all that. A trite saying, but perhaps true nonetheless.

But, really, in this case what good could having such knowledge do for him? After all, I know and still there is nothing I can do.

I fear that not even John, with his battle-toughened body and steady gun hand [not to mention his undying loyalty to me] will be able to help now. I also fear [know] that he would die trying.

If the worst happens, which I anticipate it might, he will probably never forgive me for not bringing him along, for not letting him help. Or try to help.

Note: He is concentrating on the book now. The tip of his tongue emerges and swipes across his upper lip slowly. He will never know what that sight does to me, what it has done to me ever since our first dinner at Angelo’s. God, what a fool I was that night.

But regardless of how much I would like to, I cannot tell him what I fear [know] is happening. The risk is just too great. The worst possible outcome would be for John to die and me to somehow survive. Although that also seems a most unlikely possibility. I would throw myself in front of a bullet. Bare my neck to a blade. Cover a bomb with my body. Whatever it took to save him.

Since no one will ever see these words, I am going to be completely honest and put down what I would say to John if only I had the courage.  
Note: He glances up and catches me looking. He smiles. And it is an indication of how much I dread what the future will bring that I smile back and mean it. Maybe he’ll remember the moment.

The future is racing towards us and I think that future will be the end. Of me, of this, of us.

So.

 

John,

Did you really never notice that it was only ever you who issued denials about the supposed relationship every one else seemed to see when they looked at us? From the candle on the table that first night at Angelos’s to every snicker sent our way from Anderson and others, I never denied anything.

Probably I would not have denied it even to you, had you ever asked. But you never did. Never would. [Not entirely your fault after the way I dismissed you that first night.]

Well, we both know that relationships are not my area. Perhaps were I not so spectacularly ignorant on the subject things might have been different. I despise having regrets. They are so futile.

But now the truth must be said. Or typed at least.

John, I love you.

I can imagine that those words would have you fleeing into the street, because, John Watson, as you never fail to mention, is not gay. Which does not explain the signals you sent out at the beginning, but all right.

Sadly, your predilections do not govern my emotions.

I do not think I was subtle. Or are you under the impression that I wink at every attractive man I meet? Of course, that was not our first meeting. Love did not spring up in an instant. It had been simmering for years.

Enough, more than enough, emotion.

I suspect that my life might be coming to a premature close, at the hands of Moriarty. Which is my fault for playing the game at all; you knew it and I am so sorry that I did not listen. Knowing that my time might be limited, there is one more thing that I want to say. That is simply to thank you for your friendship, for allowing me to love you, albeit secretly. I do not have to die, if die I must, without understanding why people want to love and be loved. I know now.

I only wish that we…but no. It is [probably] better this way. If things do play out as I think they will, you will be losing a flatmate and [I do believe, of course] a close friend. Maybe even your best friend. That is how you have treated me and there is no way I can explain how much that has meant to me. If you died, I would be losing the only love of my life. Unacceptable.

I never deal in fantasy, but somehow I cannot help imagining a different world, a better reality, one in which I could share my love, my life, my everything with you.

John, I love you. I will love you until the day I die, whenever that comes, and quite probably after that, if at all possible.

Please believe that.

S. Holmes

P.S. If somehow I manage to survive what is coming, perhaps things might change…but, no, I cannot think like that. It will only lead to madness.

DELETE 

fini


End file.
